Rescue Attempt
by Patcat
Summary: See title.
1. Chapter 1

RESCUE

RESCUE ATTEMPT

Chapter One

The key scratched in the lock, and she was sure that everyone on the floor heard the lock tumble open. If they managed to sleep through the sounds of the key in the lock, they had to hear the door's creaking as it opened. She almost wished that someone would appear to ask her just what the hell she was doing. She had only the vaguest idea of what the hell she was doing. She didn't, couldn't, wouldn't believe that she was in any physical danger. In the time that she'd known him, he'd avoided the use of physical violence and seemed to hate it. It was a characteristic that made him very different from many of the men who came in and out of her life. There was a threat of violence about him, much of it coming from his size and his intensity, but some resulting from the sense that, for all of his hatred of it, he would use violence if he absolutely had to. And if he had to, the results would be devastating. Cringing at its sound, she shut the door behind her. Its closing thump echoed in the dark silence. The bright colors of his kitchen failed to break through the dark. She found the fifties look of the kitchen a sharp contrast to the rest of the apartment and asked him about it. He shrugged and said the décor had never bothered him. It showed few signs of recent use. Even the coffeemaker was dusty, and she wondered if the refrigerator held anything besides beer. The silence frightened her. It could mean that he wasn't here, and thinking about where he might be led to several disturbing possibilities. If he was in the apartment and was so quiet, the possibilities were equally terrifying.

She took a deep breath. "How did it get to this?" she thought. "It was so good…"

She remembered the early days, when his humor and brilliance and sweetness dazzled her. She frequently couldn't understand why such a brilliant man would have any interest in her. When she mustered up enough courage to ask him that question as they dined at a restaurant whose name she couldn't pronounce but whose food she loved, he stared at her.

"But you're smart," he said. "Really smart. I just read a lot and have a good memory. Most people don't listen. You…You listen…You know I'm not showing off…"

The spent the rest of the evening engaged in a mock argument over who was smarter, largely so that they could spend much of the night in bed making up.

She leaned against the wall as the memory of what he did to her body overwhelmed her. She physically ached for him. He was a wonderful lover, but beyond that she felt a connection to him. They'd been together only a couple of weeks when she told him about her parents and the circumstances of her conception. Instead of the fear, or worse, the creepy fascination she'd seen in other men's eyes, in his she saw compassion and understanding. As she spent more time with him, she learned where those qualities came from. It was hard for him to tell her about his family and past, and much of what she discovered was the result of something he had to tell rather than something he freely told. His nightmares, which often bore an unhappy similarity to her own, and some phone calls told her some things. His partner—who was rapidly becoming a close friend—offered as many details as she could without betraying confidences.

Their shared shadows seemed to connect them. Things were wonderful. They exchanged keys. His partner was thrilled with these developments, hers less so. It was events dealing with their partners that developed the first cracks. The discovery of that damnable transfer request from his—one that he seemed to have expected and tried to shrug off—left him more wounded than he wanted anyone to know. Her partner's protectiveness led to a crisis. His captain, a man she knew he'd come to regard as the big brother he didn't have, was forced out of the department. Her work situation grew worse, but she would never have considered leaving if he hadn't recognized her unhappiness and encouraged her to deal with it.

"Look," he said to her one night as she nested on him in bed. "I don't want you to go…but I don't want you to be unhappy. And you're really unhappy with work."

She struggled to concentrate on his words as his hands—those beautiful, elegant, graceful hands—did wonderful things to her back.

"You're like me," he continued. "Your work is pretty much your life…And if you're not happy with it, things are pretty awful."

She rested her arms on his chest and raised her body so that she could look in his eyes. "I don't want to leave you. I'm starting to think life is more than work."

He kissed her forehead. "I don't want you to leave," he said softly. "I'm starting to think there's more than work to life too. But you should be happy…And if taking some time away does that, it's good."

She knew he cared for her too much to force her to stay, and at the time she didn't realize she loved him enough to want him to beg her to stay. So she left, and when she returned his life was in chaos. His partner's kidnapping nearly destroyed him, his mother's fatal illness consumed him, and the job ate at his soul. He told her little or none of this. When he was with her, he was with her, comforting her, helping her deal with her troubles. He revealed details about his mother's illness only because it prevented him from being with her. She tried to help him, to let her visit his mother, but he gently but forcefully refused. "It would only upset her," he said at one of the many meals where he barely touched his food.

His partner revealed some of the details, including her kidnapping and how a murderous and suicidal small town cop nearly killed him, and how he was also drifting away from her. Then the brothers, his and hers, appeared, and neither brought any good into their lives. They began to drift away from each other. There were cancelled dinners, rushed phone calls, brief and disappointing conversations. There were fewer and fewer of these until they stopped, and when his mother died, it was his partner that called her.

She called him to leave messages of sympathy and offers of help, but he didn't respond. She went to the funeral and stood awkwardly at the graveside. He didn't reject her presence as much as he simply didn't acknowledge it, something that would have upset her if it hadn't been clear he wasn't acknowledging anyone's presence.

She hadn't seen him since the funeral, although he was often in her thoughts. She maintained contact with his partner, and she heard the rumors. When she learned of his suspension, she struggled over whether to call him. Two things finally brought him to his apartment. One was her partner's comment that the suspension was a long time coming, which led to her angry response that he certainly knew something about suspensions. The other, far more influential, was his partner's description of his state and plea for help.

"Maybe you can reach him," his partner said. "I can't. But I know he cares about you…He probably loves you…And I think you love him…And I love him enough that I hope that might save him."

All of this led to her standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room of his apartment. She took another deep breath, walked into the living room, and saw him.

He sat at the chair at his desk. He was hunched over and held a glass in his hand and stared out the sliding glass door that led to the tiny balcony. A bottle sat on the paper littered desk. The pale light painted him in grey. He was a lonely, isolated ghost, and she knew there was a third reason why she came. She loved him, and she had to try to save him.

"Bobby…"

END CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

He didn't want to feel anything. He was on the way to that point, but not quite there. He could still remember what had happened, could still feel the pain in his wrists and ankles and around his stomach, could still feel the terrible thirst, could still feel his fingers around his brother's throat, and hear his screams. Worst of all, he could still remember what he did to his partner, and could still remember the woman who brought joy in his life. He took another drink of the amber colored liquid and briefly reveled in its heat as it flamed down his throat. The expensive alcohol didn't give him what he wanted. Memories of her flooded his mind, images of her laughing at one of his comments, smiling at him, resting in his arms. The pain the memories produced were as bad—maybe worse—than any he'd experienced, including those produced by his partner's kidnapping and his time in that prison. He ached for this woman physically and mentally. As good, as kind, as smart as his partner was, she couldn't know that his life had been like. The woman in his memories could. She understood. She knew.

He took another drink. He didn't know what he wanted more, oblivion or more memories of her. He stared out his balcony, the lights blinking and blurring in his sight. His lips felt numb, and an enjoyable warmth encased his body, but his mind refused to shut down. "It was so good," he thought. The few months with her before both of their lives began to spiral into chaos had been the best of his life. He would never blame her for leaving. He understood something about how a job could became a life, and, although he knew she had changed his feelings about that subject, he didn't know if she shared his attitude. What he did know was that if you loved someone you didn't cling to them or force them to stay. He let her go away, and when she returned is life was in a state beyond chaos. He thought that perhaps one reason he didn't know how to deal with her return was because some part of him didn't expect her to. He certainly wasn't used to people returning to him. When he saw her at the funeral, he didn't know what to say to her. He wanted to rush to her, to beg her for absolution, and to plead with her to stay. But he couldn't.

When he heard the key in his lock, the first thought that came to his sodden brain was that someone had called his landlord to check on him. A vague, desperate then flicked on the edges of his mind that the sound was that of his partner, and the hope quickly turned into a terror that she would see him in this pathetic state. Even with his senses befuddled by alcohol, he recognized the intruder's steps were those of a woman, and that they weren't those of his partner. A faint, familiar scent reached him, and then a soft voice.

"Bobby."

END CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

Warning--one bad word.

CHAPTER THREE

"Olivia."

He whispered her name, and the pain in his voice pierced her heart. He didn't turn towards her. "How did you get in?"

Pleased she was controlling herself, she stepped closer to him. "You gave me a key. And I've never had the chance to give it back. If you want it back…"

He took a deep drink of the amber colored liquid in his glass. The light it reflected painted his face with angles and crosses as he lifted it to his mouth.

"Yea," he said. "I'm sorry…I remember now. Things have been…" He waved his free hand.

Olivia listened for any sign Bobby might be the better or worse for drink. He spoke clearly, but over enunciated his words.

"I…I thought you were Eames," Bobby said softly. "I…" He stared into the glass. "But there's no way…Not after what…"

"She's worried about you," Olivia said cautiously. "She said she couldn't reach you."

"She shouldn't try," Bobby mumbled. "I'll…I've ruined her life…" He took another drink and emptied the glass. He reached for the bottle on his desk.

"How much of that have you had?" Olivia asked tentatively.

He hadn't looked at her since she'd entered the room. "Too much," he said as he refilled his glass. He tipped the bottle towards her. "Want some?"

Olivia hesitated. A drink might restore some of her courage, but she had no desire to engage in a drinking contest with Bobby. In spite of his considerable lead, she thought he could still drink her under the table.

"Oh, God, Olivia," Bobby cried. "I didn't mean…I didn't think…" He lurched to his feet.

"Bobby…It's all right…I know you didn't mean anything…" She reached for him, but he spun away from her.

"I…I'm sorry…I…" He turned a terrible shade of grayish green and stumbled to the bathroom.

She followed him as quickly as she could. She heard him being sick and hesitantly entered the bathroom. Bobby slumped against the bathtub, his knees bunched up against his chest. He held his head in his hands.

"Screwup…Whack job…Head case…Weirdo…Crazy…" he chanted.

Olivia flushed the toilet, lowered its cover and sat on it. Her heart shattered for him, but she didn't dare touch him. "Bobby…You're none of those things…"

"I…I fucked up…So bad…Not just me…But I hurt Ross…Eames…Everyone…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "You…You shouldn't be here…If anyone sees you…think you have anything to do with me…" He seemed to want to fold inside himself.

She leaned forward. "You are not a screwup…or a whack job…or a weirdo…And I don't care who sees me with you…I want to be seen with you…"

He raised his hands as a shield. "No…No…" His hands dropped. "I…I don't feel good…"

Olivia quickly stood and flipped open the toilet seat. She held his head as he threw up the scarce contents in his stomach. She eased him back against the tub, found a washcloth and ran it under the faucet. She tenderly wiped his face.

"Ok?" she asked.

"I…I'm sorry," he mumbled. He was slurring his words now. "I…I drank…It was stupid…Stupid…"

"Drinking too much," Olivia said gently. "That's stupid…But one stupid move doesn't make you stupid." She had never seen Bobby even slightly drunk before. She suspected he didn't drink much around her because of her mother's history, and that he drank little before he knew her. She was grateful that he wasn't an angry drunk. It seemed that, just like when he was sober, when he was drunk he was the greatest danger to himself.

His hands hung limply at his sides. "What about a whole bunch of stupid things?"

She smiled at him. "We all have bad moments."

"I've had bad years," he moaned. He looked up at her for a moment. "Why are you here?"

She sat on the edge of the tub. "Because I love you."

He shook his head and groaned. "No…No…"

"Bobby." She leaned towards him. "It's not open to debate. It is. I love you."

"Oh, God, why?" he cried.

She touched his cheek. "Because you're a good, kind, smart, funny man."

He curled up as tightly as he could and wrapped his arms around his head. She knew at that moment that there was never any danger of him hurting her, but plenty of him hurting himself.

"No…no…I can't…I can't…" he said in a horrible chant.

She gripped an arm. "What can't you do, Bobby? Please…tell me…"

He shook with the effort of controlling himself.

She slipped to her knees on the tiles next to him. "Bobby, I've come here. I came in here. The least you can do is tell me what you're talking about."

He snuffled and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, and Olivia thought he seemed very much like a frightened little boy. "Probably," she thought. "The little boy he was never allowed to be."

"I can't," he said so softly she barely heard him. "I'll hurt you."

"Bobby," she said tenderly. "The only way you're hurting me is by not telling me what you're talking about and making me kneel on your bathroom floor."

He uncurled a bit. "I…I'm sorry…"

"C'mon." She stood slowly, still holding his arm. "If you think your stomach's ok, let's get somewhere more comfortable."

She helped him to his feet, a task made complicated by his intoxication, size, and the bathroom's tiny shape. She guided him to his bed and sat him on its edge. He was remarkably easy to move, acting as if he was resigned to whatever she wanted. She knelt before him and started to remove his shoes, but he waved a large paw.

"You don't…I can…."

"Bobby…If you lean over, you'll probably fall…"

He allowed her to slip off his shoes and socks, but started wrestling with his shirt. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, and she reached up to help him.

"This…This is wrong," he said. "You shouldn't have to…"

"It's all right." She helped him shed the shirt.

"I…I wanna take a shower," he mumbled. The thought slipped into his numb brain that now that he'd finally reached the point of nearly not feeling anything just when he wanted to feel something.

Olivia wasn't sure Bobby could stand up, let alone walk to the shower. But the longer he stayed awake and the more alcohol he got out of his system, the less severe his hangover in the morning.

"Ok," she said. "Can you…"

"I can get my clothes off," he said petulantly. His face almost instantly crumbled in contrition. "Sorry…"

"It's ok," she said softly. "Listen…I'm thirsty…You got anything in your fridge?"

"Uh…I…I think there's some iced tea…Some Cokes…I know," he said with an edge of shame. "There's some beer…But…I can't remember if there's any food…"

She stood. "I'll find something…You get a shower…" She leaned down and brushed her lips across his forehead. The warmth broke through the haze around him, and he leaned towards her. She sat carefully beside him on the bed and drew him to her. He resisted for a moment, and then his head and upper body fell into her lap.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…" he mumbled over and over.

She didn't debate him. "It's all right," she whispered. "Let go…Just let go…It's all right…Let go…"

"Can't…can't let go…If I let go…I'll never get back."

She smoothed the curls on his forehead. "I'm here…I'll help you get back…"

"But…what if…I pull you down with me? What if you can't get back? I've already ruined Eames' life…I can't ruin any more…"

"Alex doesn't think that," Olivia said. "I don't think that."

"I can't…I can't pull you down with me…I can't do that to someone I love," he whispered.

"Bobby." She kissed his forehead. "Did you hear what you said? Are you telling me that you love me?"

The fog around him was finally beginning to clear. He could look at her face without everything spinning around him, but his defenses were still gone. "Yes," he said.

"People who love each other help each other," Olivia said.

"But…"

She brushed her lips against his. "You loved me enough to let me go. You have to love me enough to let me stay." She smiled. "Think you could do that?"

Bobby closed his eyes and tried to calm his spinning thoughts. He felt Olivia's soft hand on his cheek, and he opened his eyes. He raised his left hand to touch Olivia's cheek, and was sober enough to feel her strength and warmth.

"Do I think I can do the one thing I really want to do?" he murmured. "I think I might." He unsteadily rose to sit. His head swam for a moment.

"Ok?" Olivia asked.

"Uh…Ok would be an exaggeration," he said, feeling the words form in his mouth. "But…better…" He looked directly at her for the first time that evening. "I think I can take that shower now."

He stood carefully and quietly accepted Olivia's help.

"If you toss your clothes out," she said. "I'll get you some clean ones."

The thought of asking her to join him in the shower passed through his mind, and the fact that he could manage such a thought surprised him. A faint smile crossed his face. "I feel," he thought. "And it's good."

"Hey," Olivia said. "You looked happy for a second."

He stood in bathroom doorway. "Yea…I felt…feel happy…And in case you haven't figured it out…I'd like you to stay."

She smiled. "Yea, I'd figured that out."

He wasn't free of the alcohol he'd consumed, and Bobby nearly fell when he misjudged his step into the bathtub. He carefully turned on the water to avoid scalding his body. The water sloughed off some of the haze around him, but the time in the shower also allowed his doubts and fears to rise again. He leaned against the shower walls and let the hot water pound his body. "Why?" he thought. "Why is she?" He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the rush of cool air when Olivia opened the bathroom door and placed a T-shirt and boxers on the sink.

Olivia moved to his kitchen to see if there was anything edible in it. As he promised, the fridge held iced tea, Coke and beer, but nothing else, not even cold pizza. "I wonder how long it's been since he had anything to eat," she thought. "Let alone anything like a decent meal." She considered her options, and decided she could make it to the corner bodega and back before Bobby emerged from the shower. She made sure she still had the key to his apartment, grabbed her jacket, and left.

As the water in the shower cooled, Bobby turned it off, pleased that his head didn't spin. He stepped carefully out of the tub, and wiped the steam from the mirror over the sink. He stared at the reflection facing him. He knew he looked bad. One of his mother's last comments to him concerned the grey marching steadily through his hair. His partner had made several remarks about how exhausted he looked in the past year, and even his captain frequently suggested that he could use more sleep. In spite of his semi-comatose state at his mother's funeral, he'd caught some of the whispers about how terrible he looked. He knew he hadn't taken care of himself during the months leading to her death, and since his time at the prison he'd scarcely ate at all. The resulting weight loss left him gaunt. The lack of sleep left dark circles beneath his eyes. And around his wrists, ankles, and stomach, the marks of the restraints were still visible. In spite of the steam in the small room, he shivered.

"Good thing she hasn't seen much of them," he thought. "It'd remind her of what I am…Make her run away…"

He shook his head to try to dispel the dark thoughts. He dried off, put on the clean clothes, and stepped out of the bathroom.

"Olivia?"

END CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

"Bobby?"

Olivia juggled the bags of groceries as she entered the apartment. She balanced them on the countertop next to the refrigerator. When there wasn't an immediate response to her greeting, she listened intently. She heard nothing, not the sound of running water in the bathroom or any other indication there was another soul in the apartment.

"Oh, no," she thought. "He got out of the shower…and didn't find me here." Frustration and panic rose in her mind.

She walked into the apartment's main room. Relief swept over her when she saw him standing at the balcony door. Fear replaced the relief when she saw his shoulders heave.

"Hey," she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. "You hungry? I saw there wasn't anything in your kitchen, so I went down to the corner to get some food."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Stupid," she heard him mutter.

"Stupid?" she repeated softly and stepped closer to him. "What's…"

He scuttled awkwardly away from her.

"Ok," she thought. "He's spooked, and he's spooking me. Let's give each other a couple of minutes."

"I need to put some of the stuff away. Some of it needs to go in the fridge. If you're hungry, I can fix something. Or we can order something."

She walked back to the kitchen and began to put things away. She'd gone for the simple and basic—some soup, eggs, milk, cheese, some deli meats, bread. Putting it away took very little time. "Ok," she thought. "Maybe that's enough time."

She walked back into the main room to find him sitting as she'd found him earlier. He sat hunched forward in his desk chair staring out the balcony. She was relieved that he at least didn't have a drink in his hands.

"Hey," she said softly. "I got the idea you haven't been eating very well. And I'm hungry. Can I fix something?"

He sat motionless. If it hadn't have been for his breathing, he would have been a statue. He hadn't combed his wet hair, and it stuck up at crazy angles on his head. The light painted strange, pale patterns on his grey skin.

She moved closer to him. "I'm sorry I was gone so long," she said. She struggled to keep her voice calm. "I didn't think it would take so long. I'm sorry I didn't leave you a note."

His silence was so terrible that she wished he would scream. She decided on a full, frontal attack.

"Bobby…I'm here…I love you…I'm not leaving…Not without a fight. This silent treatment isn't going to work. I know you're afraid of being abandoned. You've got good reasons for that. But I'm not going to do that. I know too much about how that feels. Just think. Going down to the corner bodega is not a big deal."

"I…I know that." His voice finally broke the terrible silence. "It's just…I came out…And you weren't here…"

He sounded like a lost child, and he broke her heart.

"It's just," he continued. "When I was a kid…There were so many times…when I'd wake up…or come home…and no one would be there." He held his head in his hands. "I…I knew…you'd stay…You wouldn't leave…I know that up here." He tapped his head with a long finger. "I know it here." He tapped his chest. "It's one of the reasons why…why…I love you…" He swallowed. "But with the alcohol…and everything that's happened…and…and it's so hard…when everything in your past…"

Olivia walked to him. "I understand," she said. "Things happened to me. I didn't expect anyone to be there…or stay…" She touched his damp head.

He trembled, turned and wrapped his arms around her waist. She responded by wrapping her arms around his head and pulling it to rest against her tummy. They remained in that position for several moments until he heard a faint rumbling.

Bobby looked up at her. "You are hungry."

"Yea," she admitted sheepishly.

He stood awkwardly. "What did you pick up?"

She still held him. His chin rested on her head.

"The least I can do after all this is feed you," he said. "You get some eggs?"

"Yea…I guess I hoped you might fix some of your scrambled eggs."

"Sounds good to me, too. But there's not a lot to put in them…"

"And are you sober enough to be playing with knifes and fire?" she asked.

He smiled. "I think so…But you can supervise just in case."

She watched him prepare the eggs, happily remembering past scenes like it. She'd always liked men who could cook. Bobby could cook several things very well, and also possessed the endearing quality of cleaning up after himself. She was particularly fond of his scrambled eggs. He'd fixed them for her the morning after the first night she stayed at his apartment. They were nothing elaborate, just eggs with whatever Bobby could find to put in them, but he prepared them enthusiastically and sometimes daringly.

"I'm sorry," he said as he stirred the eggs. "I don't have a lot to put in them…the cheese and some of the ham you bought…Could you check to see if the fridge has some Tabasco at least?"

"Not too much of that for me," Olivia said as she opened the fridge. She found the bottle and handed it to Bobby. Their fingers touched, and the shared warmth spread through their bodies.

"I'm glad," Bobby said. "That I sobered up."

They ate quietly in the kitchen, Olivia sitting on the counter, Bobby leaning against the sink. She inhaled the majority of the eggs, but was happy to see Bobby ate much more than a few bites.

He noted her scrutiny. "I haven't been eating a lot lately," he confessed. "I've lost weight, but I don't recommend the diet."

"I've never thought that the stress diet was a good idea," Olivia said. "Here…I'll do the dishes…"

Bobby watched as she moved around the kitchen. "She'll understand," he thought. "She always has…and she'll understand this…And if she doesn't…No one can…"

Olivia finished placing the few dishes on the counter to dry. She faced Bobby with a combination of nervousness and anticipation. The intensity of his gaze shook her, and she looked away. He turned and walked from the kitchen; she quickly followed him. He stood in front of the balcony, the light from the window making him a dark silhouette.

"Bobby." She started to move towards him, but he raised a warning hand.

"You need to know something," he said. His voice was strained but controlled. "I…I didn't know this when we met…Please know that…Please remember that…You…you heard about the Brady case?"

Olivia nodded. Robert Goren's victory in getting Mark Ford Brady to confess to the murders of dozens of young women was rapidly becoming a NYPD legend, but she also knew from her conversations with Alex Eames the victory carried a high price.

"Of course," she said. "Even Elliott was impressed with that."

"It wasn't anything I did," Bobby said. "Brady wanted to talk to me." It took more effort for him to control his voice. "He…My Mom…"

A terrible weight descended in Olivia's stomach.

"They…they had an affair," Bobby continued. "She…she didn't know who he was…What he was…And…my Dad…the man I thought was my Dad…"

The implications of his words froze Olivia's blood.

"He…He wasn't around a lot," Bobby continued. "I've told you something about him. She…she had this affair with Brady…When I was four…She went away with him…and…and he hurt her. He hurt her really badly." Bobby stared out the window. "She…her behavior…I can sorta remember it being strange…but, after that…she was really sick…Schizophrenia…Stress…Trauma…Can trigger it…make it worse…"

"Oh, Bobby…" Olivia stepped towards him, but Bobby stiffened.

"Brady…Brady thought I was his son…And my Mom told me…She didn't know…She was never sure…." He choked out the words.

Olivia couldn't move or think.

"Olivia…Please…Please don't think…When I met you…When I…I…fell in love with you…I didn't know this…If…If you want to leave me…If you never want to see me again…I understand…But please don't think I wanted to be with you because of this…Please don't think that…Please don't think I could be like that…Please…"

Shaking free of her shock, Olivia looked at Bobby. He appeared on the edge of imploding.

"You don't look anything like Brady," she said. "You're nothing like him."

His head turned slightly towards her.

"When did you learn all this?" She moved close enough to touch him.

"I…I saw Brady right before his execution…and the night my Mom died." Bitterness filled his voice. "I had to ask her. A son had to ask his dying mother about the worst thing in her life…"

"You had the right." Olivia felt a terrible, unreasonable anger towards Bobby's mother. "You're not the person who had the affair. You're not in the wrong here."

"I don't want you to think…" Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. "That I…I…"

"I know you weren't using me…I understand," Olivia said. She was inches away from him.

Bobby turned and wrapped his arms around her. "Thank you…thank you…"

Olivia wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her toes to kiss him.

He responded with a deep, desperate kiss, and Olivia's head spun. Their bodies remembered and called to each other. Olivia briefly wondered how she thought she could ever love another man. As his memories of her body collided with its reality, Bobby wondered how he could have ever let her go away. Neither knew how they reached his bed or how their clothes wound up in a pile next to it. All they knew was the smell and taste and touch of the other. At one point, Olivia felt a small spark of fear. She'd never known Bobby to be so aggressive, so desperate when he made love to her, but the spark was quickly consumed by her equally desperate need and want. Their passion devoured them. They were lost to everything but each other.

Olivia shook as she returned to the world. Her state was partly the result of what Bobby had just done to her, partly from the cool air blowing across her damp skin, and partly from Bobby's trembling. She tried to speak and to wrap her arms around him, but her body was beyond her control. She was dimly aware of Bobby muttering. As her senses returned to her, she began to understand his words.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…I didn't mean to…I'm sorry," he said over and over.

She found her voice. "Bobby…Bobby…It's ok…It's all right…You don't have anything to apologize for…It's ok…" She was finally able to move her arms, and with one she began to rub circles on his back. With the other, she tenderly wove her fingers through his curls. Her touches calmed and soothed him, and his cries and trembling eased and ceased. He unsteadily raised his body and fell on his back. He gently pulled her to him and brought the sheet and blanket over them. She nested on his chest.

"I'd almost forgotten," she whispered. "How good it feels to be here."

One of his large, elegant hands wove in and out of her hair. "You ok? I didn't hurt you?" His voice was low and husky.

"Good Lord, no." She kissed his chest. "It was wonderful, Bobby."

"It's just…I'm afraid…I got lost in you…And I'm afraid…I was…selfish…Thought only about me…"

She looked up at him. His great, chocolate eyes shimmered in the pale light. "Bobby, if that was you being selfish, I may not live through you being unselfish."

He smiled at her, and Olivia felt ridiculously triumphant.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For rescuing me."

"You're welcome. Just remember, I'll need you some time."

"I'll be here," he promised. "With all the life preservers I can find."

"Bobby," she breathed.

"Olivia."

THE END


End file.
